Match Point
by FishwichForMyLove
Summary: Based on tumblr request. A standoff over an outfit ends the only way it can with England and France: dramatically.
**A/N: Mattysones on tumblr requested "Come over here and make me" for FrUK from a quote fic prompt meme. I obviously don't write France very often, and have never written straight up FrUK, so take this with as many grains of salt as you need, and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming soon.**

* * *

"Quit primping, we have to leave," England barked at France's back.

France sighed, and smoothed his hair for a few more seconds in the bedroom mirror. He glanced at his wristwatch, shrugged and resumed preening.

"Calm down. There's such a thing as being fashionably late, you know."

Checking his own wristwatch, England puffed his cheeks with a withheld scream of frustration and let the air out slowly. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms to keep himself from snatching France by the collar and dragging him out to the car.

"You'll be fashionably dead if you don't hurry up."

Making a shrill gasp of faux-offense, France tossed his head one last time and turned around to give England a disappointed glare.

"You know nothing."

He was so focused on how handsome France looked in his suit— and the bastard did clean up so very well, damn him— that it took a moment for England to register what looked so wrong about the whole outfit.

"I know you're not wearing that shirt."

"Why not?," France pouted, smoothing the offending garment down.

England stared at him in disbelief, gesturing between the twin mint fabrics.

"Because I'm wearing the exact same one."

"And?"

He was just about to get well and truly frustrated at the stupidity of it all when he caught France's knowing grin. It was too smug, too purposefully sexy— damn him again—, and England wasn't going to fall for it.

"You're really going to pretend this doesn't bother you? You?," England questioned with an incredulous snort, knowing full well that France was too vain to actually not care. "What, is this to get back at me for nagging you?"

France crossed to him, straightening his lapels and brushing down his arms with an exaggerated, coquettish tenderness.

"I don't see the issue. I look wonderful in this shirt, you look… good in this shirt."

The half-compliment registered slowly, and England swatted at France's poking and prodding hands.

"You _bought_ me this shirt!"

"That's why it looks good," France teased, and bestowed an enthusiastic peck on England's frowning mouth. "Shall we? I thought we were going to be late."

England caught France's elbow as he attempted to breeze past and pulled him back into the bedroom. If it was a battle of pride France wanted, England was certainly prepared to deliver. If he thought about it for too long, that didn't seem like much of a compliment to himself, but England was determined to have his way.

"Change your shirt. I'm not going out matching. It's ridiculous."

"You change," France laughed, adjusting his jacket and brushing off England's pulling.

"I was dressed first! You're not even wearing a tie." England blocked the doorway, hands bracing against the door jamb.

France looked him up and down with a charming, if patronizing smile, then sat on the edge of the bed. He feigned interest in adjusting his cufflinks and said, "I'll wait while you change."

"No, you are not winning this one. I was dressed first, I'm wearing the shirt." England's voice may have sounded more whiny than he meant it to, and he may have stomped his foot. But only a little. And he was absolutely still in the right.

There was a tense minute of silence as England continued trying to bore his gaze into France, and France nonchalantly crossed his legs and inspected his nails, all the while still smiling that wretched, handsome smile.

"We're going to be late," France finally said, still not bothering to look up at England.

England let out an exasperated growl and clenched and shook his hands in front of his body, itching with the supreme desire to strangle the smugness right out of his love. France loved nothing more than to rile him up, and he fell for it every time, which only got him going even more.

"I'll call the whole thing off, you know," he threatened—emptily— and strode over to wave a finger in France's face. "I swear I will."

France grinned at him devilishly and braced his hands against the bed so he could toe off his shoes, leaning back with a casual seductiveness that only served to irritate England more.

"Just as well. I'm beginning to feel like a night in might be more enjoyable anyway," he intoned, extending one leg to brush his foot up the inside of England's right thigh. "You're so worked up, I think you could use the relaxation."

England fought the urge to kick the tickling foot away, as good as it felt, and tried to redirect his focus into sounding as stern as he could possibly manage.

"Take. It. Off."

"Come over here and make me," France stage-whispered, held tilting and chin jutting forward in such a defiant display of provocation that England felt a genuine throb of want.

Before France could even enjoy his retort, England was half in his lap, one knee braced clumsily on the mattress between France's legs, and England was kissing him. He bit at France's lower lip and tangled his fingers in his perfect golden locks, knowing it would drive him crazy and wreck his hairstyle. England's felt his face growing red from the feeling of it all, and from delayed embarrassment at his own boldness, and he barely had the wherewithal to smack France's hands away when he tried to untuck England's shirt. He rallied one last coherent thought as France's tongue swept into his mouth with an irritating knowledge of just exactly what it took to make England's knees buckle, and unbuttoned the top button on France's shirt. France let out a heavy, hot breath against England's mouth and nodded, so England took the opportunity to push him back on the bed and straddle him fully. Bending over as if to press his lips against the side of France's neck, England grabbed both sides of the shirt and gave it one hard yank. A terrible ripping sound interrupted their gasping and several buttons flew off and disappeared from view.

It took France a moment to register what had happened, and by the time he was sitting up and gaping at the ruined shirt falling open across his chest, England was already halfway across the room, smoothing down his clothing and hair with a wolfish smile. France looked up at him with an expression that seemed equally shocked and impressed, cheeks pink and mouth open, but eyes sparkling. England couldn't help but to indulge in a little laugh.

"Oh, _goodness_. It looks like you'll have to change now. I'll be waiting in the car."


End file.
